


pretty little plaything

by velveitine



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blood, Broken Bones, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Skin Avulsion, but a lot of just hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 20:05:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15714168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velveitine/pseuds/velveitine
Summary: Lance lets out a blood-curdling scream and falls to his knees, hastily moving to plug his ears in a feeble attempt to keep that godawful sound out. His head feels like an overinflated balloon that’s about to pop and he can’t help but groan, squeezing his eyes closed and just praying to God,please make it stop.





	pretty little plaything

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to change this to just be a oneshot, but I will definitely post more separately in the future

Even from the confines of the small hallway, he can hear the muffled, agonized screams. The sharp, metallic scent of freshly spilled blood fills his nostrils and the air that’s deliberately drifting in from the arena is thick with the smell of sweat; it’s becoming almost impossible to comfortably breathe. The bulky cuffs that are painfully clamped around his wrists aren’t providing any sort of comfort and the cold of the metallic floor is slowly seeping through the thin material layer of his suit, causing small patches of goosebumps to erupt along his skin. He looks behind him, a few different species kneeling behind him, in the same situation he’s stuck in. He was sent on a small rescue mission, they’re the reason he was here in the first place. But he’d been clumsy and careless and now he was the Galra Empire’s sick and twisted form of entertainment.

 A clawed hand clamps onto his shoulder and hauls him jerkingly to his feet. A white-hot pain immediately blazes down through the left side of his torso and he lets out a choked sob. A distasteful layer of sweat has broken out under the collar of his suit and he desperately wishes he could wipe away the tears that have started to collect in the corners of his eyes. Every unsteady inhale sends a dagger of pain into his already throbbing ribcage. He clenches his fists, sure that if he could see his hands, the small crescent indents left by his fingernails would be visible. He begins to think about the rest of his team, hoping that the last thing he would ever say to them hadn’t been ‘skeet skeet motherfuckers’.

 He’s brought back to attention by the cool rush of air around his wrists as the cuffs noisily clang to the ground. He brings his arms to the front of his body and tentatively massages the sensitive skin that has been rubbed raw by the cuffs, relishing in the feeling of being free. Well, almost.

 He freezes as a set of long, slender fingers settles beneath his chin, gently lifting upwards until he’s looking into the cold golden eyes of a tall, male Galra. A frown slowly dawns on its purple face, “You’re next, _Blue Paladin_. It’s a shame really, I wish our emperor had decided to save you for dessert. Imagine me sinking my teeth into that soft, delicious brown skin of yours.” the pad of his thumb lightly rubs along Lance’s bottom lip, sending shivers down his spine. He’s stone-still as the Galra leans in, his lips ghosting on the edges of Lance’s ear as he whispers, “You’d make such a pretty plaything, I bet your blood tastes _absolutely divine_ ”. The Galra pulls back and grabs a black broadsword that’s leaning against a wall, dumping it into Lance’s arms, “Let’s see how well you fare with a blade”. Lance is still frozen in shock as the Galra roughly pulls him by his bicep towards the entrance of the arena, right as a bloodied lump he is forced to assume is a person is carelessly heaved in the opposite direction. He swallows down his heart, which has decided to journey into his throat along with his breakfast.

 He hastily probes every inch of his mind for some kind of plan that includes both him and the others escaping unscathed. “Please, don’t do this. I could be all yours if you just let them go”, he pleads and looks back into the Galra’s golden eyes as devilish smirk spreads across its face. “Sorry darling, I’m a sucker for pain”. Before Lance can come up with another plea, there’s a palm on his back and he’s being shoved face down into the reddened dirt of the arena.

 All the air that had been previously residing in his lungs rushes out, causing his most-likely-broken ribs to shift and send out another flare of unbearable pain. He weakly lifts his head and spits onto the ground, the grit of the arena floor stuck in his teeth and parts of his mouth that taste really, _really_ unpleasant. With a pained grunt, he plants his hands into the dirt and pushes himself to a crouch, snatching the sword from where it had flown when he’d gone sprawling.

 A primal growl reverberates off the arena’s towering walls; he almost doesn’t want to look up. But he does, and _oh boy, what the fuck is that._ He knew Haggar had put together some odd little pets, but this was some next level shit.

 Before him stands a wolfish, patchwork monstrosity that can only be described as awfully hideous. Its skin is black and shriveled like a prune and the sockets where its eyes appear to belong are empty, giving off a vibe that Lance _really_ dislikes. Its gigantic maw is open, sharp and uneven steel teeth _literally dripping_ with blood.

 Now that his head is clearing and the haze has started to lift from his brain, he can see that the grotesque creature is not in fact standing, but _sprinting right towards him_.

 “Oh shit”, he deadpans. Although his muscles and joints scream in protest, he painfully pushes himself to his feet and sets off running, leaving the beastly creature to pound its face ruthlessly into the wall. _Slow reflexes_. _I can use that to my advantage_. His eyes skim the arena’s edge for any sign of an exit, but to no avail. All of the hallways leading in have been sealed by what looks like a series of electrified gates. He finally stops running and peers back to the opposite side of the arena to see that the patchwork creature has torn itself away from the wall, leaving a nasty crater to show for it.

 The beast turns to face Lance and begins to crookedly run straight for him. He takes a deep breath and squares his feet like Shiro had taught him in training, putting his dominant foot slightly in front of the other to stay balanced. The patchwork creature crosses the width of the arena and is quickly in front of him. He dodges a the swipe of a gigantic paw and swings the sword, slicing through a line of stitches holding two pieces of blackened skin together. The creature skids in the dirt and pivots, giving Lance an opportunity to regain his balance and dig the sharp blade of the broadsword hilt-deep into the creature’s neck, its canines inches from the side of his face. He gives the sword a twist for good measure and a wide grin spreads across his face, which is quickly replaced with confusion as a thick, glowing violet goo begins to ooze from the wound. He lets go of the sword and quickly backtracks across the arena before the disgusting slime fully engulfs the sword.

 The beast stops moving altogether and it’s almost a minute of confused silence from both Lance and the Galran audience until some weird shit starts to go down. A large mass under the creature’s black patchwork skin begins to shift and expand, clicking and whirring like a set of old rusted gears. The creature jerks and another identical head awkwardly bursts through the goo and black skin that had been broken by the blade. The creature twists its neck and shudders, adjusting to the presence of a second head. All four of the creature's eyes lock onto Lance before one of its dog-like jaws hinges open and lets out an ear splitting shriek.

 Lance lets out a blood-curdling scream and falls to his knees, hastily moving to plug his ears in a feeble attempt to keep that godawful sound out. His head feels like an overinflated balloon that’s about to pop and he can’t help but groan, squeezing his eyes closed and just praying _god please make it stop_. The noise only seems to increase in volume and he spares a quick glance upwards to see that, yet again, the beast is barreling straight towards him. He ducks down, ears ringing painfully and pulls a hand away, fingertips coated in a thin, translucent layer of blood. _Fucking great, a busted eardrum._

 His ears are ringing as his vision starts to blur and he tries to scramble away, which is a bad idea, because now the world is angry at him and the ground is spinning and the wall is tipping and—

 He feels the weight of the creature’s claws digging ruthlessly into the skin and muscle between his shoulder blades as it jumps onto his back, crushing his body down into the ground. If his ribs weren’t broken before, they definitely were now. He desperately gasps for air, but the creature is pushing down on his lungs and crushing his windpipe. One of the heads is still shrieking its heart out while the other takes it upon itself to sink its razor-sharp steel teeth into the meat of his right bicep and pull, tearing the thin material of his bodysuit and ripping out a considerable chunk of flesh in the process. He tries to scream for help, but all that escapes his throat is a choked sob. Tears stream down his cheeks. His vision begins to blur and his body convulses, desperate for air.

 He’s exhausted. He just wants to go home; back to Varadero Beach where small blue waves would lap at his ankles and the soft white sand would squish between his toes. He wants to go back to his mom’s cooking and his siblings bickering. He used to stare up into the open abyss of space in wonder and amazement, but that was back then. He’s homesick and tired and just wants to go back to the way things were before the Garrison.

 He starts to lose consciousness, slipping into that place between awake and asleep where nothing seems real, and he. Still. Can’t. Breathe.

 A muffled _bang_ resonates throughout the arena and all hell breaks loose. He can hear the muted screaming of the Galra and the all-too-familiar sound of an explosion. His vision begins to blacken as the weight on his lungs lessens and disappears. He splutters, desperately gulping for air. He hears a piercing, feral scream, a metallic screeching that’s about as appealing as a knife on a chalkboard, and a crash. He can feel himself being lifted off the ground and slumped over someone’s shoulder, secured by an arm tightly looped around his waist. The person starts running, Lance’s body bouncing back and forth uselessly like a sack of potatoes. He groans as an invisible spike is driven through his side, reminding him that his ribs are probably bruised, if not fractured or completely broken.

 He tries to open his eyes, but his vision is blurred by tears that stream down his cheeks, making him feel even weaker, more vulnerable. “Damnit, that _thing_ fucking bit him, he’s losing too much blood”, he can hear the garbled chatter of another voice, “We need to get him back to the castle and into a cryopod, _now!_ ”. Lance tries to respond to the familiar voice, but all he can muster is a choked gargle. The ground quakes and he can’t help but panic. He wriggles in the person’s grasp, trying to tell them that he’s okay now, he can breathe and fight too, that he isn’t useless just because he’s a little roughed up.

 “You’re hurt, idiot, the only reason you’re not feeling it is the adrenaline. Stop moving so I can get you outta here without dropping you, you’re goddamn heavy.” The voice belongs to Keith, but his usually blasé tone has shifted; his voice is soft and soothing, and Lance wants to drown in it. _God did he really just think that? He must be going insane._

_“_ Just a little longer, I promise it’ll be okay”, he can feel the incline as Keith walks up into what he’s assuming is the cockpit of his lion. Keith sits him in one of the black lion’s co-pilot chairs and buckles him in like a child, but Lance doesn’t have time to care before he slumps over and the world lets way to a hazy darkness. Even unconscious, he swears he can hear Keith whisper—

 

“You’ll be okay.”


End file.
